


Patching Up Wounds

by noodleinabarrel



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, M/M, Memories of past injuries, Minor Injuries, Old Married Couple, Protective Spock, old married spirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6081705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodleinabarrel/pseuds/noodleinabarrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jim accidentally cuts his finger while cooking dinner, Spock frets over the small wound, the sight reminding him of more serious injuries during their time aboard the Enterprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patching Up Wounds

“Ouch!” Jim’s voice yelled to the accompaniment of a metallic clatter. Dropping his PADD, Spock rushed into the kitchen.

Jim’s left finger was shoved into his mouth, a pained expression lining his face. Thinly sliced carrots decorated the chopping board in front of him. A knife was on the floor at his feet.

“Jim,” Spock said, his tone reverberating with fear. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he mumbled around his finger. “Knife slipped.”

Spock approached. “Let me see.” He pulled at Jim’s hand until it slipped from his lips. The flesh below the nail bore a slice eleven millimeters long. Around the edges, the skin was raw, small droplets of blood seeping to the opening. An image from years ago, still razor sharp in the recall, flashed abruptly behind his eyes, filling his sight with red, his tactile sensations with the feel of a weakened grip in his hand, and a wavering sense of pain and fear and regret crowding his thoughts.

“You require medical aid,” Spock said, the sight of Jim’s blood making him uneasy. A list of motions ran through his head like computer script. He needed medical supplies. Their first aid kit was in the cupboard to his right. Disinfectant must to be applied in case the knife Jim had been using harbored microorganisms. A clean cloth. Bandages. Perhaps an ibuprofen tablet to dull any pain Jim was suffering. He reached into the cabinet above the fridge to retrieve the required materials. 

Jim laughed, bending to recover the knife and place in on the counter with his unscathed hand.

Squeezing his right bicep, Spock directed Jim to the kitchen table, pressing gently but insistently on his shoulder. “Please do not exert yourself. You will only aggravate your injuries.”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little bit?” Jim’s expression tilted upward—a lifting of lips and eyebrows with a softening around the edges of his eyes. It was a look Jim often directed at Spock when his husband believed he was being unnecessarily protective. Spock disagreed with Jim’s dismissive reaction ninety seven percent of the time—any danger, however small or substantial was perilous to ignore. Such as the occasion on Artus II when Jim had disregarded the danger posed by an incensed politician during their first contact mission on the planet. Spock had heeded the captain’s decision to remain calm and continue on as normal. A decision he regretted sixty eight minutes later when the politician’s fist struck Jim’s face during a bout of frustrated communications. 

To his detriment, Jim often underestimated the consequences of risk.

“No,” Spock answered as he opened the first aid kit, removing bandages and a bottle of disinfectant, lining them neatly on the table.

“It’s barely more than a paper cut.”

“Paper cuts rarely draw blood.” Spock was aware of this fact as Jim had acquired many such abrasions during perusals through his ample collection of antique paper books, which he kept stacked by publication year and author on the shelves in their study. 

“The sauce is going to burn,” Jim complained as he moved to stand. He snuck his oozing finger into his mouth again, sucking on the flesh in an act of careless cleansing.

Spock held a firm grip on his shoulder. “Sit.”

“For God’s sake, Spock. Our dinner!” A burnt smell began to infiltrate the kitchen.

Spock quickly moved to the stove, turning off the element and switching on the fan above the appliance to clear the odor. He returned to Jim’s side before his husband could escape. “The preparation of our evening meal may continue once your wound has been properly washed and bandaged to prevent infection and further exacerbation.” He pulled the finger from the clutches of Jim’s mouth once again. “Sucking on the wound is a poor substitution for sterilization. Human mouths house a myriad combination of bacteria. You are likely to cause greater harm to yourself with such a performance.”

“You didn’t have any issues with my mouth last night.” Jim grinned with a glower that denoted teasing. “All sorts of your body parts got slathered in my germs. Lips, tongue, fingers, ears, di—”

“Jim,” Spock admonished. The heat inflaming his cheeks, and the memories Jim was recalling to the forefront of his mind were distracting Spock from his immediate task. He cradled Jim’s hand, shielding the injured limb around his own, and knelt before him to better inspect the damage.

Jim winced as Spock applied the disinfectant with a clean tea towel he had salvaged from a drawer. An answering sting echoed in his mind. “You’re doing it again, you know,” Jim murmured. His free hand moved to Spock’s face, a single finger trailing the edge of his jaw.

“Clarify.” Spock dabbed at Jim’s finger with another swab of sterilizer to be sure it was properly purified of hazardous substances. He was reminded of the incident during their fourth year aboard the Enterprise when Jim had been incapacitated by slashing abrasions of disruptor fire to his left arm. The attack had peeled his flesh into strips, the open wound oozing blood then pus. During their second day on the Fytr V, a wild planet inhabited by Klingon scouts, the wound started emitting a foul smell as it became riddled with infection. They had been hiding within the brush, behind trees and rocks, sleeping in disastrous conditions in the mud and rain. The Enterprise had been forced to flee as the crew was beset by several Klingon warbirds, leaving the ship’s command team to their own devices. Spock had attempted to clean the wound, ripping strips from his own shirt to wrap tightly around his captain’s arm to staunch the flow of blood. Their conditions had not been ideal with few medical supplies and only a flask of clean water Spock needed to reserve for hydration. 

Spock nursed the captain through a heightening fever for three days, the human’s words becoming desperate and insensible, his body convulsing in shivers as his forehead burned under Spock’s fingers. Dread that the infection would continue to spread gripped Spock throughout their abandonment. By the time the Enterprise returned it would be too late—the captain would have grown limp and cold in his first officer’s arms. However, the ship arrived the next day, and Doctor McCoy was able to heal both the infection and Jim’s lingering wound. Barely a scar remained on Jim’s flesh now, but the memory of Spock’s fear remained, a dark blemish across his memory.

Jim shifted uncomfortably under Spock’s administrations. Medical procedures had always disturbed him—the idea of his person being associated with weakness easily annoyed Jim, the need to appear composed and in control leftover from his days of starship captaincy. 

“You’re fussing,” Jim answered. “Like you always do. Like you still do even though we’re two retired old farts living in a land bound condominium, lightyears away from Klingons, or Romulans, or any mysterious entities who mean us harm.”

“Even the smallest wound can lead to hospitalization if left to fester.” Spock unraveled a string of gauze, cutting a small end and twisting it around Jim’s finger lightly to prevent painful exacerbation, but firmly to halt the entrance of foreign particles. “Danger can be found anywhere, whether in the void of space, or among the sharp appliances in one’s kitchen.

Jim sighed, the huff of breath tickling Spock’s bangs. “I’m not about to be slayed by a small knife cut.”

Spock stiffened at the thought of Jim’s demise. How many times had Spock worried about this happening during their years of acquaintance, friendship, and service together? While the captain was injured again and again, inhaling harsh gasping breaths, quailing and moaning around a bloody wound or disfiguring bruise, body still after a blow to the head. The sharp terror almost incapacitated Spock with its strength each time—fear that Jim would not survive, that Spock would lose his friend, his captain, later his lover and bondmate, was a persistent overwhelming thought whenever Jim was harmed. The thought of a blank gaping hole replacing the glowing warmth he had come to treasure, which infused him with life, adding a sense of unhindered joy to every thought he made, terrified him. 

Spock had been unable to do anything on Fytr V but press a dirty cloth to Jim’s wounds and speak steadying words of false comfort while he grasped his captain’s hand, holding him fast to this world, begging him to stay. Nothing but fill himself with regret that he could not take the captain’s place, that the phaser fire had not sliced his body into crumbling pieces.

He secured the bandage in a firm knot at the tip of Jim’s finger. “No,” Spock agreed, standing as he cleared away the first aid kit, “not if I can prevent it.”

Shaking his head with a smile, Jim stood. “You’re getting even more over protective in your old age.” His brow lifted. “Or maybe in mine.” He returned to the cutting board, retrieving a clean knife from the drawer below the counter.

Spock considered the removal of sharp objects from the household if Jim was so persistent in disregarding his own safety. “Please, Jim. Let me chop the vegetables. With your injured hand, there is a greater possibility of clumsy fumbling that may lead to additional injuries. You can attend to the burnt sauce, instead.”

Lifting his gaze to the ceiling, Jim handed Spock the knife. “There’s no point arguing with you when you’re like this.” He moved to the stove and relit the element, poking at the pot’s contents with a spoon. As Jim hovered over the heat source, Spock remembered the sight of phaser burns scorched across Jim’s flesh, red and bubbling, after the unwelcome reception they had received twelve years ago on Neran III. Several painful skin regeneration sessions in med bay had been required to restore the captain’s skin to its normal appearance. 

As Spock began slicing onions, he attempted to push the image of Jim burning his fingers against the stove top from his mind, the element glowing red through his vision.

***

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [a prompt on Tumblr: TOS spirk and patching up a wound.](http://noodleinabarrel.tumblr.com/post/139765691044/for-the-symbol-thing-tosspirk)  
> I was going to make it a mission angst ficlet, but it turned into Old Married Spock remembering past mission angst as he fusses around Jim instead. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you'd like to keep in touch, I can be found on [Tumblr](http://noodleinabarrel.tumblr.com/) for spirk flailing and writing chat.


End file.
